My life is shit.
Not in that romantic, poetic way where a man leans into a whiskey glass and calls the world cruel.
No. I mean it in the most visceral, unfiltered, literal sense.
My name is Eric.
Thirty-one years old. Young, by any reasonable measure.
Too young to be tumbling five stories down the side of a building, bones breaking like dry twigs, lungs collapsing around the last exhale of a wasted life.
And yet, here I am.
Falling.
Shattering.
Ending.
You'd think I'd fight for it—scrape at the air like a drowning rat, scream into the heavens, demand one more breath.
But I didn't.
Because what would be the point?
My life wasn't a tragic poem or a misunderstood novel.
It was a long, drawn-out sentence.
And death?
Death felt like the punctuation.
But if you want a story before I vanish—fine.
Not to beg. Not for pity.
Just to leave a shadow in the silence that follows.
It started before I did.
My father—Detective Roman-style good, the kind who bled for strangers and still believed in justice—
He died before I could say his name properly.
A gang bust. No glory. Just a corpse on the floor and a department that sent a condolence bouquet like it was enough.
My mother?
She broke.
Not like glass—more like rust. Quiet. Slow. Inevitable.
She carried me like a wound she never wanted.
"Had you not been born…" was the lullaby she whispered when the lights went out.
When she left, she didn't look back.
Traded me and her mourning for a sleaze who smelled like cigarettes and spent my father's pension like it was owed to him.
I was four.
Alone.
Except for my grandmother.
A bent-backed woman with iron eyes and hands that knew hunger better than rest.
She took me in.
Fed me before herself. Let her bones freeze so mine could grow warm.
She taught me sacrifice without ever saying the word.
I lived in that one-room shack on the edge of East L.A., where the wind pushed through the walls and shame clung to everything like mildew.
Kids laughed at my smell.
At the holes in my shoes.
At the silence in my voice.
I drank water to feel full.
Laughed at scraps.
Feasted on sympathy.
And then—I grew.
By fifteen, I was tall. Wide. My father's blood came roaring to the surface like a tide.
The bullies didn't laugh anymore.
They bled.
I didn't fight with fists.
I fought with every year I had swallowed back.
Every moment I went hungry.
Every time someone called my life a waste.
One of them ended up in surgery.
My grandmother had to bow.
Apologize. Beg.
Her knees cracked under her.
That day, I made two promises:
One — Never again would she kneel because of me.
Two — I'd never use my fists again.
So I turned to books.
Not because I loved them, but because they were the only weapon I had left.
I wasn't smart.
Not in the way that made things easy.
My mind was a busted engine, grinding its gears just to keep up.
I studied until my eyes burned.
Worked every job that would have me: gas stations, night shifts, construction—whatever kept my grandmother's fridge humming.
But I dreamed.
God help me, I dreamed.
I'd become a prosecutor.
I'd carve justice out of a broken world.
I'd wear the badge my father died for and make it mean something.
Three hours of sleep a night.
Test prep by flashlight.
My scores? Average.
But I made it.
Third-rate law school. Full ride.
I told myself it was enough. That the name didn't matter. Only the bar did.
I was wrong.
The halls were filled with ghosts. Professors who didn't care. Students already half-dead inside.
But I pushed.
Kept my GPA above a 4.0.
Told myself I could still win.
And then... the exam.
Year one—failed.
Encouragement.
Year two—failed again.
Silence.
Year three—just me and the void.
Year four… my grandmother whispered:
"Eric… maybe it's time. Just find a job. Settle down. I want to see you marry before I die."
That broke me.
Not her words.
Her hope.
I quit.
Not because I was poor.
Not because I was tired.
But because… I wasn't enough.
I applied for jobs I knew were beneath me.
Told myself it was temporary.
Hired twice.
Quit twice.
The first stole.
The second hurt.
But I didn't fight.
Because I remembered my vow.
So I slipped into the shadows—
Back to part-time work, back to nights alone, back to wondering how long before my grandmother's body gave out for good.
And still, I worked.
Construction by day.
Convenience stores by night.
My body bent.
My mind frayed.
The sun burned holes in my thoughts.
Sleep came like a ghost—just long enough to haunt me.
I wanted so much.
Love.
A name.
A legacy.
What I got was this:
A fall.
Five stories of regret.
The wind in my ears like laughter from some cruel god.
Maybe it's better this way.
Better than watching myself rot into a burden she doesn't deserve.
I'm sorry, Grandma.
I'm angry—at the world, at fate, at myself for being too weak to climb out.
Why was I born?
To be hated?
To be forgotten?
If I'm offered rebirth—I don't want it.
Let others have that second chance.
Let them chase dreams that don't rot on the vine.
I've lived my hell.
Let me stay in it.
…Unless—
Unless this isn't the end.
Unless death isn't a silence... but a door.
Unless something waits beyond the fall.
Then let me through.
Because I've already died once.
Maybe now—